Medicine
by OxOx-Megz-OxOx
Summary: Sometimes, when two people meet, everything just seems to fall into place. Everything that should happen, does. They fall in love at exactly the right time, and live happily ever after. Unfortunately, this is not one of those times. This is the story of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.
1. Prologue: the Scientist

**Summary: Sometimes, when two people meet, everything seems to go in their favour. Everything that should happen does happen, and they live happily ever after. And then, sometimes it doesn't. This is one of those times. This is the story, of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.**

**Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x John Watson (Johnlock)**

**Rated: T (for drug use and language in later chapters)**

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**Hey guys!**

**So before we get started, I feel like I might need to explain this a little better. First of all, each chapter will start with some song lyrics, and a date and time. The chapters will be named after the song titles, and will be based on the lyrics (loosely). This is for no reason in particular, I just thought it sounded like a good idea.**

**Secondly, this chapter is the prologue. So don't think that this is where the story's going to continue from, because it's not. It won't all be complete angst all the way through, I promise.**

**There will be lots of Johnlock, and you don't have to have listened to the songs to know what's going on, so don't worry. It just might help with the imagery a little more. One of the parts of the plot will contain drug use, I must warn you. I will put a trigger warning on the chapters that contain it though, so you will be warned.**

**Megan.**

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_Nobody said it was easy,_

_Oh, it's such a shame, for us to part._

_Nobody said it was easy,_

_No one ever said it be this hard._

_Oh take me back to the start._

- the Scientist by Coldplay

**4th August, 2018**

**1:00 am**

He was gone.

Just like that, he was gone.

John held him in his arms, rocking gently on his heels. His body was splayed across the floor, his legs sticking out at awkward angles, as John's tears fell down onto his face. But he couldn't feel them. Already, he was getting cold, but John kept holding him. It wouldn't make any difference, he knew that. He could hold him until his arms broke in two, or the sobs ripped his body apart. It wouldn't bring him back. Nothing could.

At least not this time.

But that's not why he held him. Not because he thought it would bring him back, or because it would change anything . . . but because he was never going to get another chance. Never again, would he get to hold this perfect man in his arms. Never again, would he be able to kiss his lips, or run his hands through his hair. He would never feel the warmth of his hand intertwined with his. He would never be able to go off solving crimes with him, or argue about what to watch on telly.

And it was ridiculous.

The whole idea was utterly ridiculous.

And he wondered if, all those years ago . . . if he'd known then, that this was going to happen . . . he wondered if he still would have gotten involved with Sherlock Holmes. Would he have changed his mind about moving in with him, and eventually growing attached to him? Would he have thought differently about agreeing to a relationship with him, if he'd known that this would be the end result?

Was everything that they'd been through, worth the pain that he was feeling now?

It was. He knew it was. He wouldn't have changed his time with Sherlock for the world. But he just wished he'd known . . . that someone could've been there to tell him what he was getting himself into. If he'd known then how hard these last few years were going to be . . . _No, _John thought. It would've been even worse if he'd known. Because then he wouldn't have been able to enjoy all the good times that they had. And he didn't want that.

His eyes were closed now, and his beautiful, Cupid's bow lips were parted. It looked almost like he could've been sleeping.

John wished he were only sleeping.

He traced those sharp, angled cheekbones with his hand. This wasn't what he deserved. It wasn't how he deserved to die; in disgrace. He hadn't even been able to die as himself. He'd died as a shadow. And echo of the brilliant man he'd been so many years ago. He didn't even _look _like the person he'd once been. His shirt was baggy, and ill-fitting, and his bones stuck out through his skin. His hair was limp, and lifeless, and his face was hollow and empty. He was a shell.

But at least he hadn't died alone. John didn't think he'd have been able to live with himself if he'd died alone.

He could hear the sound of sirens now, but they sounded so far away. It was like he was underwater, and he was drowning. His limbs felt weak, and heavy, and he could barely hear. He was fighting to breathe, and his vision was blurred. He was vaguely aware of having shouted Mrs Hudson, and saying something about ringing for an ambulance. It didn't matter now though, they were too late. Nothing mattered.

There was an ear-splitting, blood-curdling scream. It ripped through his body like thunder.

It was so loud, and terrifying, that John winced. It was only a few seconds later, when he realized that the scream was his own.

The cold, lifeless form of Sherlock still lay across his lap. He cradled him as he screamed. He didn't care who heard him. He wanted the world to know. This man was too important to lose. Not just to him, but to everyone. And none of them even knew. He'd saved so many lives, in more ways than one . . . why hadn't somebody been there to save his?

The sirens were getting closer now, and his screaming dissolved into quiet sobs. He tried to scream some more, but no sound was coming out. His whole body convulsed, shaking with his silent cries. He pressed their foreheads together, closing his eyes. In a few short minutes, he would be ripped away from him. For good. And he wasn't ready. He didn't want to say goodbye, not yet.

Eight years together. That's all they'd gotten. Eight years. And five of those years had been spent apart, in misery. For both of them.

It felt like so much more than that though. It felt like he'd known Sherlock his entire life, and now he had no idea how to function without him. Before Sherlock . . . there'd been nothing. Nothing and no one. He'd been so alone. The only person he spoke to was his psychiatrist. And then, he meets this eccentric, amazing . . . _strange _man, and his life is changed forever.

Watching Sherlock jump from that rooftop . . . was the worst thing John had ever felt. It was like someone had taken the air right out of his lungs, and was ripping off pieces of his heart, right in front of him. Everything that was said between them in that short, final phone call, had echoed in his head for months afterwards. And every night, he'd dreamt of that moment, when he watched Sherlock fall. And every night, he tried desperately to save him. But he was always too late.

And he was too late now.

In a way, it was as if Sherlock had never come back at all. It was like the man he'd known had died jumping off that rooftop. He just wished he could go back to that moment, knowing everything he knew now, and just stop it all. Whether he could have stopped him or not, who knows, but he liked to believe he could have. He could've stopped Sherlock from faking his suicide. He could've helped him stay the man he was before, and stopped his brilliant mind from unravelling strand-by-strand.

Maybe, if he had been there to stop it, he wouldn't be where he was now. Hunched over his best friend's dead body.

He wanted to believe it wasn't true. That it was a trick, just a magic trick. But anyone who'd seen Sherlock in the past few months would know that that wasn't the case. Ever since he came back, he just hadn't been the same. John had thought that their separation had been hard on _him, _but it had had an even more serious effect on Sherlock. His mind and body had been deteriorating for years.

And by the time that Sherlock found his way back to him, there was just no hope. The Sherlock Holmes that had once been, was gone. And you'd have to have been a fool not to notice. He didn't go back to consulting with the Yard. He couldn't. His mind just because a jumble, of too many thoughts and deductions. Nothing made sense to him anymore. It seemed that the only thing that did make sense to him in the end, was John.

Most people would've left, after seeing Sherlock in the state he'd gotten himself into. But not John. Because he'd still had _hope. _He'd come up with this fascinating delusion that one day, Sherlock would come back to him, and everything could be just like it was before. Whether he'd actually believed it or not at the time, John wasn't sure. But he'd stayed, if only to care for the shell of a man that had been left behind.

And he'd failed.

The ambulance was right outside the flat now, and John could hear it. The tires screeched to a halt, and the doors were thrown open. Several heavy, probably boot-clad feet were pounding the pavement, as they made their way to the door.

He held Sherlock tighter, bringing him into his chest. He buried his face in his hair, keeping his eyes squeezed shut. He wanted to pretend it wasn't happening. He wanted to remember Sherlock as he was before, and just pretend, if only for a moment, that everything was safe, and warm. Like it used to be. He wanted to remember every part of him, and build him back up in his mind. His messy, chestnut hair, and his icy, blue eyes. His sharp, prominent cheekbones, and perfect lips, and the way they felt against his. His smell, and the way his arms felt, when they were wrapped around his waist.

Not that he'd ever forget. He couldn't forget this wonderful, crazy, arrogant, cold, strange, _beautiful _man even if he tried.

There was a loud, fierce knock at the door downstairs. John tried to drown it out. Mrs Hudson ran to open the door, which creaked as it swung open. Sherlock always said that its hinges needed oiling. John never got round to it. There were a lot of mumbled explanations, and he could hear Mrs Hudson crying loudly. He knew she'd heard the screams. She knew it was too late that there was nothing anybody could do for him now.

John could hear his heartbeat in his ears, and the sound of blood rushing in his veins. Several feet began to make their way upstairs, picking up the pace. John gripped Sherlock tighter, and tighter. He didn't want to let go. He was never going to let go.

_Never let go._

_Never let go._

_Never let go._

The door to their - _the _flat, swung open. It made a large banging noise as it hit the wall behind, but John ignored it. His vision was blurring again, and couldn't move. His limbs were heavy, and lifeless, and he was vaguely aware of someone pulling him away. But it seemed his grip on Sherlock was too strong. He may have shouted something at them, he wasn't sure.

The person then slid their arms underneath his, dragging him away. Sherlock's body fell to the floor, as John was pulled up. His knees were weak, and his head was spinning. He was finding it difficult to stand. Everything was happening too fast. The world was just turning too quickly, and John was finding it hard to keep up.

All of his thoughts and feelings began to string together, and everything became a jumble. He was mumbling things, words tumbling out of his mouth uncontrollably. He had no idea what he was saying, and by the looks of it, neither did anybody else. A medic was stood behind him, still holding him up, though he was struggling. John watched, shaken as everything began to happen at once.

Mrs Hudson was on her knees, sobbing.

She wasn't looking at Sherlock.

Several medics were hunched over Sher - the body.

They were pulling out completely useless pieces of equipment.

One was checking his breathing, and holding some sort of pump.

He shook his head.

Another sighed.

They packed away the equipment.

Two ran downstairs.

Mrs Hudson cried.

They came back with a stretcher.

John fell to his knees once more.

They lifted the body on to the stretcher, leaving the room.

And Mrs Hudson cried.

And John screamed.

And they were taking him away.

Strong hands took hold of his shoulders again, walking him over to the sofa. A soft, orange blanket was placed around his shoulders. He'd seen them several times before, and remembered how Sherlock would scoff at them. The consulting detective had never understood how a garishly coloured piece of flimsy material was going to be any comfort to anyone. And to be honest, right now, John agreed with him.

The only thing that was ever of any comfort to him, was Sherlock. And he was gone.

He had to go with him.

He didn't know where the urge came from, but for some reason, he wanted to go. He wanted to be there with him. He didn't want him to be alone. Sherlock had spent almost his entire life alone, and that seemed wrong. And even though Sherlock wouldn't even know he was there, John still couldn't bear to think of him being alone all over again.

Shrugging the blanket off his shoulders, John pushed the medic to one side. He didn't protest, and instead just took the blanket and sat down himself. Mrs Hudson was still crying, a blanket now around her shoulders, too. John wanted to comfort her, he did. He knew she needed him. But Sherlock needed him more.

He ran through the open door, and down the stairs. It seemed wrong, to not have Sherlock bounding ahead of him. If he tried hard enough, he could almost convince himself that they were just off on another case. That Sherlock was already half-way down the street, waiting for him. Standing there in his long, dark coat and scarf.

There was a dull roar in his ears, as he reached the front door. He didn't know why, but he looked down the street anyway. As if Sherlock could really be there, waiting at the corner. Of course, he wasn't. Instead, there were several shop owners and neighbours, stood outside their doors in pyjamas, looking concerned.

John turned, just as the stretcher was being put into the ambulance. They'd covered his body up now, but one of his hands had fallen out of the plastic coverings. He remembered holding that hand, as they ran down the street to get away from Scotland Yard. He remembered holding it several other times, as well. He remembered watching that hand, and its twin, working away in the lab.

The lab, in the very hospital that he was now going to be taken to.

John knew that's where they would take him. It was the nearest one. But he couldn't ignore the irony of it all. His whole relationship with Sherlock had revolved around that bloody place. It was where they'd first met, and spent most of their time when they weren't at the flat. Where Sherlock would work, and John would just watch, basking in his brilliance. It was where Sherlock had faked his suicide, and examined bodies.

And now Sherlock was going to become one of those bodies. Just a name, a story, and a file. That's all people were in the end.

Molly worked at St Bart's. In the morgue. John hadn't seen her in quite some time, but he had no doubts that she still worked there. That was undoubtedly where Sherlock was heading as soon as ambulance got there. They needed to determine cause of his death. And of course, check that he was really dead this time. John knew Molly wasn't the only person who worked in the morgue, that would be ridiculous . . . but he couldn't help but wonder if she'd have to be the one to do it.

God, he hoped not. If there was one person who cared about Sherlock almost as much as he did, it was Molly. It would destroy her.

But he put those thoughts out of his mind for now. He wouldn't allow himself to think about . . . that. His only concern right now, was to get to the hospital. He couldn't just sit in the flat, waiting for a phone-call to confirm what he already knew. And he couldn't sit in the flat, if _he _wasn't there. Without him . . . it was just too _quiet. _Everything just seemed _wrong._

Running over to the ambulance, he grabbed one of the medics by the shoulder, causing him to spin round. His face was a mixture of great fatigue, but also pity. John hated getting that look from people. As if he were some poor, helpless orphan. Or a kitten, that needed caring for. They didn't understand, none of them did.

"Can I . . . can I go with him?" he muttered, sounding entirely not like himself. His voice just sounded so . . . hollow, and empty. He sounded hopeless. Like all the happiness had just been drained out of him. And it had. His whole world was crumbling around him all over again, and it was even worse than the first time.

All he wanted, was to do this one last thing. Just _one _last thing. To not leave Sherlock alone, and to go with him to the hospital. To sit with him in the ambulance, and hold his cold, lifeless hand. To sit in the waiting room, and hear the news for himself. Even though he already knew what they were going to say. To have Molly sat with him, and hold his hand as he cried.

"I'm sorry, but -" the medic began, glancing around him. John knew what he was going to say, but he cut him off. He wasn't going to take no for an answer. Not tonight. He'd been through enough. The least they could do was let him come with them.

_"Please," _John whispered, tears forming in his eyes. He blinked them away, looking over the ambulance. He saw that hand, still sticking out from under the plastic, and felt something break inside him. Because he could never touch that hand again. At least, not like before. He would never feel that hand on his waist, his cheek, resting on his leg. He would never feel it wipe away his tears, or trace the line of his jaw. And all of a sudden, he'd never felt so small. _"I . . . I love him. Please."_

The medic nodded wordlessly, and led John into the back of the ambulance.


	2. Chapter One: Use Somebody

**Hey guys!**

**I know the prologue was quite (understatement) angsty. But I promise that not all of the fic will be like that. In this chapter, we're right back to the beginning, when Sherlock and John met. This fic all together is probably going to be about thirty-something chapters. I just hope I can keep you guys interested for that long!**

**Also, please review. It's good to know what you guys think of the fic, and if there's anything I could do to improve it.**

**Thanks for your reviews, and I hope you like it.**

**Megan**

**tumblr: personyourparentswarnedyouabout (It's an ear-hat, John!)  
YouTube: sherlockian13 (MyNamesNotDorris)  
twitter: NamesNotDorris**

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_I've been roaming around, always looking down_

_At all I see._

_Painted faces, fill the places_

_I can't reach._

_You know that I could use somebody,_

_You know that I could use somebody,_

_Someone like you, and all you know,_

_And how you speak._

_Countless lovers, under cover_

_Of the street._

_You know that I could use somebody,_

_You know that I could use somebody,_

_Someone like you._

- Use Somebody by Kings of Leon

**20th July, 2010**

**15:00 pm**

"Are you sure about this?" John asked, as he trailed down the hallway behind Mike Stamford. He hadn't seen Mike since Med School, which was longer ago than he'd care to admit. He was never really that close to Mike, but he didn't dislike the man. They used to go out for drinks now and then, but had no reason to keep in touch after leaving Med School.

And then, all of a sudden, he ran into him in the park. John walked through that park every morning, and he always took the same route. He always went at exactly the same time, and was always back at his flat in time for lunch. He'd done this ever since he came back from Afghanistan, and yet . . . he'd never seen Mike there before. So why today?

Not only that, but now Mike was taking him to meet a potential flatmate! John had only mentioned briefly, in a passing comment, that he couldn't afford London on an army pension. Next thing he knew, Mike was telling him all about this "friend of his" ("well, not _friend _exactly . . . "), who was looking for a flatmate.

It all just seemed a little too convenient . . . not that John was complaining. He was fast running out of money and company. Maybe a flatmate was exactly what he needed right now.

"You'll like him John," Mike beamed, turning suddenly, and knocking on a nearby door. He held it open, and John sighed, steadying himself. Mike had told him nothing about this man he was about to meet and, if he was being honest, he was feeling slightly apprehensive about the whole thing. It had been a long while since John had had an acquaintance of any kind, never mind anyone he'd want to share a flat with. He slid in through the door, closing it gently behind him, and took in his new surroundings.

"Bit different from my day," John muttered, as he glanced around the room.

The lab was spotless, with smooth, pristine, white surfaces. The lights were dimmed slightly, and a number of different chemicals and substances lined the walls. The lab tables were covered with microscopes and test tube racks. Despite the cramped feel of the room, everything in it was nicely organized and sorted. Except for the lab table at the farther end of the room.

The table in question was currently occupied by a tall, slender figure. He was leaning over, holding a dropper containing some mysterious chemical. The table in front of him was covered in papers, diagrams, bottles of dangerous chemicals, and beakers. Everything was spread out across the table in a terribly disorderly manner.

As John and Mike entered the lab, the man glanced up at them. John tried not to notice, but he could feel those eyes watching him, _examining _him. When John turned to look at him, his eyes quickly darted away.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" the man inquired, without even bothering to look up again. He sat down, peering down a telescope, and John took him in fully. He was dressed in a tight-fitted, black suit. He appeared to be only a few years younger than John, but quite a few feet taller. He had a mass of curly, dark hair, and gave off this aura of just complete disinterest. "There's no signal on mine."

"And what's wrong with the land-line?" Mike sighed. He walked further into the lab, and over to one of the tables on the other side of the room. John continued to stand by the door, just watching. He wasn't entirely sure what was going on, and leaned on his stick for support, watching this . . . strange man.

"I prefer to text."

"Sorry. It's in my coat."

"Er . . . here," John said, reaching into his back pocket. The man's head shot up, looking at John intently. John's hand closed around his phone, and he pulled it out, holding it up. There was a faint smile on the man's face, and he could practically _feel _Mike's grin. For whatever reason, Mike seemed quite keen for him and this man to get along. Why though, John had no idea. And yet here he was, offering his phone to a complete stranger. "Use mine."

_"Oh,"_ the man replied, seeming almost surprised. He glanced over at Mike, raising his eyebrows. John was surprised himself. But, to be honest, he didn't care much for the phone anyway. He only used it for convenience. Not that he ever got any calls anyway. The stranger began to walk towards him. "Thank you."

"An old friend of mine," Mike cut in to explain. He was at one of the tables now, picking up random objects and pointlessly examining them. He was trying to act nonchalant, but John could see right through him. Mike clearly wanted this meeting to go well, but John couldn't, for the life of him, work out why. He still wasn't even sure that he actually _wanted _a flat mate. "John Watson."

John handed his phone to the dark haired man, who took it gently. He flipped the keyboard open, and began typing rapidly. Mike saw John looking at him, and just shrugged his shoulders, as if to say "Well, it's worth a try,". John sighed. He wasn't sure if him and this man sharing a flat was a very good idea. He seemed very uncommunicative, and isolated. John had spent far too much of his time like that already.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Tilting his head, John turned to look back at the man. He hadn't looked up from John's phone, and across the room, Mike smiled knowingly. John frowned, trying to get a look at what he was typing.

"Sorry?"

"Which was it - Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked again, briefly raising his eyes to John's. Up close, his eyes were a completely different colour. They seemed . . . deeper. John looked down at the floor, blinking several times. He looked over at Mike, who was now smiling smugly. Clearly, this was what he'd been expecting.

"Afghanistan." John muttered, looking down at the floor again. Mike must have told him, that was the only explanation. There was no way he could possibly . . . Suddenly, the door opened behind them, and the man closed the phone, looking up. "Sorry, how did you know . . . ?"

A small, shy looking girl entered, holding a mug of coffee. The door closed quietly behind her, and she made her way over to the man, holding out the coffee. John stepped back, letting her past him.

"Ah, Molly . . . coffee. Thank you." the man handed John's phone back to him, turning to the girl - Molly. She seemed quite young, with long, brown hair. She was quite pretty too. Very pretty, actually. Maybe she'd consider going on a date with him sometime? The man took the mug, about to walk away, when he noticed something. "What happened to the lipstick?"

"It wasn't working for me." she muttered, smiling awkwardly. So no chance of a date then. It was obvious she had feelings for the man. Mike smiled sadly. Clearly, Molly's feelings were not exactly reciprocated.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement." he mused, walking away. John could sense the awkwardness in the air, so decided not to say anything. Molly stood next to him, just watching the man walk away. She didn't even comment on the insulting thought. The dark-haired man gestured dismissively as he continued. "Your mouth's too . . . small now."

He took a small sip from the mug as he walked, grimacing. Clearly, Molly's coffee-making wasn't the best. He set it down carefully on the table, straightening his shoulders.

" . . . Okay." Molly mumbled, running back to the door.

"How do you feel about the violin?" he asked, and John turned to watch as Molly left. She closed the door behind her, keeping her head bent low. John could tell how embarrassed she was, and honestly, he felt quite embarrassed himself. The man seemed completely oblivious the feelings Molly had for him. He looked over at Mike, who was still examining pointless objects. It took a moment before realizing that the question had been aimed at _him._

"I'm sorry, what?" John sputtered, swaying on his feet.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end." he was typing as he spoke, but then turned to look at John, pausing mid-thought. "Would that bother you? . . . Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

The smile he gave John closely resembled a grimace. It didn't quite meet his eyes, and it didn't take a genius to notice that it was probably fake. John was completely in awe of this man. He was just . . . different. He'd never met anyone like him. He didn't make any sense.

Everything about him was different. The way he spoke, the things he said, the way he acted. John had never known anything like it.

He wondered how Mike had ever even come to know this man. He didn't seem like the typical hospital worker, the job just didn't seem to . . . fit him. So why he was wandering around, completely comfortable, and acting like he owned the place . . . John couldn't understand.

He looked back to Mike.

"Oh, you . . . you told him about me?"

"Not a word." Mike shook his head. He was holding a rather large test tube, containing things John would rather not know about. He smiled at John reassuringly.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did." the man stated, standing up.

He picked up his coat, throwing it over his shoulders. He kept his back to them, and tied his scarf around his neck. Something John had noticed about this man . . . was that he just seemed to talk _as _he thought. He didn't seem to have any kind of filter. "Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap."

"How . . . did you know about Afghanistan?"

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London." the man ignored him, picking up his phone and checking it briefly. He slid the phone into his pocket, and John began to wonder if he really couldn't get a signal after all. "Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry - got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

John honestly didn't think he'd heard a weirder sentence in his life. But after the five minutes he'd just had, he couldn't exactly say he was surprised. It was becoming clear that this man as just odd on all accounts, and John would be lying if he said he didn't find it at least a little bit endearing. But his mind was still reeling from all the information it was trying to take in at once.

"Is that it?" he asked, turning as the man stopped at the door.

"Is that what?" the dark haired stranger turned on his heel, his coat spinning behind him.

"We've only just met, and we're going to go and look at a flat?" John watched, as the man shrugged, clearly seeing nothing wrong with the arrangement. John shifted his weight as he stood.

"Problem?" John smiled in disbelief, shaking his head. This man was impossible. He looked to Mike for help, who was now leant over a table, looking extremely smug. He looked like some sort of evil genius, who's grand plan was finally coming together.

"We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name."

"I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him - possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic - quite correctly, I'm afraid."

John couldn't believe the speed at which he was producing all of this - incredibly accurate - information. He was wrong about Harry, of course. But that hardly mattered. Everything else was completely spot-on. And he delivered everything with such confidence, and assurance. It was as though he'd done it a thousand times before. John was willing to bet he probably had. And now he was beginning to understand why Mike was looking so smug.

"That's enough to be going along with, don't you think?" he smiled tightly, before turning again. He pulled open the door, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He was halfway out the door, before he poked his head back round the door frame. "The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221b Baker Street."

He winked at John, making a small clicking noise with his tongue. John stood, rooted to the spot. He felt something almost akin to excitement build inside him. He hadn't felt like that in such a long time. And he watched this . . . incredible man, as he bid them both goodbye. Mike raised a finger in response, and Sherlock stepped out of the door, letting it close behind him.

The second the door closed, John turned to Mike, who was now smiling broadly.

He could hardly believe any of that had just happened. That people like . . . that, even existed. Sherlock Holmes . . . an odd name, for an equally as odd man. But . . . strangely brilliant at the same time. Completely oblivious to some things, of course, but his brilliance couldn't be doubted. John was left awestruck, confused, excited and afraid all at the same time. He couldn't remember the last time _anyone _had produced this kind of reaction in him. He wondered if anybody ever had.

"Is he always like that?" John asked, walking over to the table. He pulled out a chair, and sat down beside his old classmate. Propping his stick up against the table, he tried not to think too hard about what Sherlock had said about his limp. His therapist had never actually mentioned that to him before, though he remembered reading something about it in her notes once. But he didn't want to think about it right now. His mind was just on overload.

"Yep," Mike nodded, setting down the test tube he'd been holding. The lab seemed oddly quiet now, without Sherlock running around confidently. John felt like he'd just gotten off a roller coaster, and had that come-down feeling you get after immense excitement. Mike turned to John, his eyes sparkling. He looked like a small child who's Christmases has all come at once. "So . . . are you going to meet him tomorrow?"

"I . . . I don't know." John sighed. Although he found Sherlock utterly fascinating, he was still a little cautious about the idea of sharing a flat with him. What if Sherlock didn't like him? Or found him boring? John could never keep up with his level of intelligence. And he seemed so closed-off, what if they never even spoke at all? None of these fears were enough to extinguish his curiosity, however. "Do you think I should?"

"I think you'd be a fool not to."

John cocked his head to the side, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"You need someone like him, John." Mike replied, "Whether you like it or not. You and I both know that you're not happy. You're lonely right now John, and it's perfectly understandable. But don't you think it's about time you started living your life again? I know it's difficult, but . . . I think he'd be good for you. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the world as you've never seen it before. In a way that you never even knew you _could . . . _And I think that's exactly what you need right now."

"Mike, I appreciate the effort, but I don't think . . ." he muttered, looking down at his hands. He knew Mike was right. He _was _alone. He _was _unhappy. There was no point even trying to deny it. Maybe he did need someone like Sherlock Holmes to help him change that.

"You're telling me you're not even a little bit intrigued? Go on, tell me you're not in the least bit interested, and I'll drop it." Mike said, looking at John. John just sighed, shaking his head, before allowing himself to give a small smile. "See, I knew it! You just can't resist that possibility of a little adventure, a little danger. I promise you, he won't disappoint."

"But he just seems so . . . distant."

"That's what he wants you to believe, but I think that Sherlock Holmes is probably the loneliest of all. He'd never admit it, but I've seen the way he looks sometimes . . . when he thinks that nobody else is looking. He looks . . . sad. He needs someone like you, John. Someone to show him that it's okay to care, to feel. He needs you just as much as you need him."

"Alright, alight . . . I'll go." he exhaled, getting up out of the chair. He picked up his stick, and held it at his side. "I . . . I should be getting back. I have some arrangements to make."

Mike smiled. John Watson and Sherlock Homes . . . that may have been one of the best decisions he ever made.


	3. Chapter Two: Be Somebody

**Hey guys!**

**Sorry it's taken so long! I've had so much to do, and it's my birthday tomorrow (4th). Anyway, thanks for reading the last chapter and for following. But please, please, _please _review. I just need to know what you guys think of the story so far, and whether you like it or not. I know it's a pain to review sometimes, but all I want is at least one review per chapter. Just so I know that someone's reading.**

**Sherlock might be a little OOC in this chapter, but this is an AU, and it is Johnlock, so please do try to bear that in mind when you're reading! And I think it might help you imagine it better, if I tell you that the person I had in mind for Harry when I was writing this, was Alex Kingston. I saw a post on tumblr a while go saying that she should play Harry, and the idea just kind of stuck. She plays River Song in Doctor Who, if you're not quite sure who she is, or you can Google her.**

**I hope you enjoy!**

**Megan**

**oxox**

**tumblr: personyourparentswarnedyouabout (It's an Ear-Hat, John!)  
twitter: NamesNotDorris  
YouTube: sherlockian13 (MyName'sNotDorris)**

* * *

_I feel a million miles away,_ _still you connect me in your way._

_And you create in me, something I would have never seen._

_When I could only see the floor, you made my window a door._

_So when they say they don't believe, I hope that they see you and me._

_After all the lights go down, I'm just the words you are the sound._

_A strange type of chemistry, how you've become a part of me._

_And when I sit alone at night, your thoughts burn through me like a fire._

_You're the only one who knows, who I really am._

_- _Be Somebody, Thousand Foot Krutch

**3rd August, 2010**

**16:00 pm**

John was sat in his armchair at 221b. He'd lived there for almost two weeks now, and to be honest, he felt more at home there than he had anywhere else. Although the flat was very cluttered and unorganized, it still had a very warm, cosy feeling about it. The house that John had grown up in wasn't like that at all. It wasn't that their house wasn't _nice, _because it was, it was _wonderful. _But . . . it was a _home. _His parents were never there, and him and Harry were often just left to themselves. That happened more and more frequently after Harry came out.

And the house just wasn't very . . . personal. It didn't really feel like it was _theirs. _Sure, there were a few picture frames scattered here and there, but that wasn't the same thing. They didn't have any of the little, sentimental things that other families seemed to have. No childhood toys that were held onto, or finger paintings from primary school. John only started to notice these things when he was around seven years old.

He never mentioned it to anyone except Harry, though. And she agreed with him. They weren't particularly close to their parents at all, mostly down to the fact that they never saw them. But this only brought the two of them closer together. They had a lot of time in the house when they were younger, to create their own fun. Yes, they had their arguments, as many siblings do, but they were only trivial.

When Harry came out, their parents would spend as much time out of the house as they could. They ignored her completely, and barely even spoke to John. It was like completely isolation, but they didn't really mind. They'd made it this far on their own already. But it got to the point eventually, where John had had enough. He was seventeen at the time, Harry was nineteen.

The three of them were sat round the table; Mr Watson, Mrs Watson, and John. Harry was upstairs in her room, she didn't really like coming downstairs when they were there. They were sat in complete silence, as usual, his parents' faces hidden behind newspapers. John was just about to have some cereal, when he slammed the spoon back down on the table. Their heads shot up.

He just lost it. He couldn't remember what he'd said exactly, but he knew it was loud enough for Harry to come bounding down the stairs. And this was the part that he remembered. He turned to his sister, taking her by the hand, and dragging her upstairs. He told her to pack her bags, they were leaving. Today. So she did, and he ran to get his things.

His parents didn't protest. They didn't even come to the door, as their only two children left, trailing their bags behind them. They got on the first train to London, and stayed with one of Harry's friends for a few months.

John sighed, and turned to look at Sherlock. He was sprawled out across the sofa, on the other side of the room. He'd been there ever since John got up that morning, and was still wearing his dressing gown. His hair was sticking out at all angles, and he was doing his "thinking" face. This meant John wasn't allowed to disturb him, until he was told otherwise.

It was strange, how quickly John had become accustomed to this . . . mad man. In just two, short weeks, he'd learned almost everything there was to know about him, and what it meant when he pulled a certain face, or did a certain thing. Currently, they didn't have any cases, which was why Sherlock was so quiet. They worked together on cases now, ever since the night he shot that cabbie.

_Ring! Riiiiiiiiiiiing! Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing!_

Sherlock's head snapped the side, as he glared at John. He hated any noises interrupting him, and John shot him an apologetic look, holding up a hand in surrender. He got up out of the chair, and stumbled towards the "Kitchen", where the ringing was coming from. He glanced around helplessly as the sharp noise continued. He didn't even know where to begin to look, under all of the chemicals, jars, and petri dishes. He sighed, trying to follow the sound.

_Ring! Riiiiiiiiiing! Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing!_

Following the sound, John could practically _feel _Sherlock getting more and more agitated. The ringing just didn't _stop. _Clearly, this person was insistent that they answer the phone. As John got closer to the sound of the ringing, he stopped. It seemed to be coming from . . . the fridge? He sighed, massaging his temples, before opening the door.

"Oh for fu-" he muttered, reaching into the fridge. "Sherlock?!"

"Yes, John?" Sherlock replied, poking his head around the kitchen door, suddenly seeming a lot cheerier. John shook his head, holding up the object in his hand. It was a small, sealed, glass jar. Inside of which, was his mobile phone.

"Why was my phone in the fridge?"

"Experiment." he explained, before disappearing behind the door again.

_Just _when John thought he was beginning to understand the man . . . he unscrewed the lid to the jar, and pulled out his phone, which was still ringing. Whatever experiment this was . . . John wasn't sure that he wanted to know. He held up his phone, peering at the caller ID. He could hear Sherlock pacing in the living room, and told him to be quiet while he answered the phone.

"What do you want Harry?" John asked, holding the phone to his ear. He walked over to the door, and slid it across, so that Sherlock couldn't hear. He didn't know why he bothered though, really. Sherlock would probably be stood at the door listening anyway.

When John and Harry had come to London, Harry had started looking for a job straight away. She knew her friend couldn't support them forever, and wanted them to get their own place together. But after a few months, it was clear that that wasn't going to happen. She had a few, poor-paying jobs, certainly not enough to get them a place of their own. John was in med school soon after, but that wasn't getting them any money either.

After a while, the stress started to take its toll on Harry. That was when she turned to the drink. John hated it when she drank, and he knew Harry's friend, Clara, didn't much like it either. It wasn't long before he decided to go and live in a dormitory at med school. He couldn't cope with Harry, and she wasn't taking any of his advice. He just didn't see the point.

Before he went away to Afghanistan, Harry told him that she and Clara were getting married. She'd quit the drink, and it seemed like everything was fine again. John attended the wedding, and it was nice. It was nice to see Harry happy again. He left for Afghanistan the very next day, safe in the knowledge that she'd be alright.

It was only when he returned that he saw how wrong he had been. Clara had to work long hours in order to support the both of them, and Harry got lonely, which meant she got bored, which meant she started drinking again. Apparently, it was even worse than before John had left. Her and Clara got into many, heated arguments, until eventually, Harry left.

They weren't exactly on the best of terms at the moment.

"I saw your blog posts, about this new . . . flatmate of yours? I thought it was about time I met him, don't you?" John rolled his eyes. Of _course _she wanted to meet Sherlock, she hadn't stop texting him about it ever since he wrote that stupid blog post! But Harry and Sherlock . . . in the same room . . . it wasn't something John was particularly looking forward to.

"Look, Harry . . . I . . . I'm not really sure that's such a good idea. It's just that . . . now's not . . . a great time."

"And why not? You're not shagging him already are you?" Harry teased, and John stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening. He hoped to _God _that the flat wasn't quiet enough for Sherlock to hear Harry talking. He felt himself blush a bright shade of crimson, and he was glad he'd decided to close the doors now. "I mean, I know it's been a while, but I thought you at least had _some _standards, John!"

"Harry! I . . . we're not . . . it's not like that . . ." John stammered, trying not to sound as embarrassed as he felt. Why would she even think . . . why did _everyone _seem to think that they . . . that they were . . .

"Oh calm down, John! I don't want you to have a stroke or something. But seriously, why can't I come over?" Harry whined, and John couldn't believe he was even having this conversation. Living with Sherlock was . . . difficult enough. Living with Harry had been _hell. _The two of them together would probably _kill _him. It wasn't exactly his idea of a perfect evening.

"It's just not a good time. Can't you come over another day?" he pleaded, though he knew it wasn't really going to do much good. Once Harry made a decision, that was it. There was nothing you could do to make her change her mind; she was incredibly stubborn in that way.

"Not really . . . I'm outside."

* * *

**20:45pm**

Four hours later, and Harry was still there. She was sat on their sofa, her feet curled underneath her. She had a glass of wine in her hand, and her hair was a mess. To give her some credit, she wasn't _that _drunk. But . . . she wasn't completely sober, either. She was still being quite loud, and telling all the embarrassing stories that John was hoping she'd forgotten. Sherlock didn't seem to mind though.

In fact, Sherlock was being almost . . . nice. As soon as John had told him Harry was coming, he'd gone straight to his room to change. This in itself was almost a _miracle. _John hadn't been able to get him out of his pyjamas for _days. _When Harry entered the living room, Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, presentably dressed, and clean-shaven. He'd extended a hand to Harry, introducing himself. He even managed to force that weird almost-smile that he had.

Harry and Sherlock were sat on the sofa, while John sat on the coffee table. It was weird, seeing Harry and Sherlock together. It was like . . . like he'd never imagined they could both exist at the same time. They were just so different, it didn't seem logical that they could just . . . sit together like this.

As he watched them talk for a while, Harry telling him some ridiculous and cringe-worthy story from John's childhood . . . he noticed something.

When he'd first met Sherlock, he'd picked up on a few things. The first thing, was his smiles. He could always tell Sherlock's attitude towards someone, or something, by the way he smiled. That day in the morgue, Sherlock's smile had looked forced, and hadn't quite met his eyes. That meant he was trying to appear civil, but wasn't too bothered about keeping up appearances.

But then, there was his real smile . . . a smile that he usually saved for John. He'd only seen it a handful of times, but he was beginning to catch glimpses of it more and more often now. Whenever John complimented his intelligence, or even if he just made a joke . . . that smile would come back. And he'd be lying if he said it didn't make him feel a _little _bit special.

It was just nice, to know he was the only one that smile was reserved for. That he was the only one that got to see it. To know that he was the only person who could bring out another side of him.

Watching Sherlock and Harry, that was when he noticed . . . Sherlock was smiling. And not his fake almost-grimace either. His real, amazing, _fantastic _smile. Harry was talking very animatedly, giggling slightly at her own, silly stories. But . . . Sherlock was _smiling. _His eyes lit up with amusement, and he even raised an eyebrow at John, teasingly. He leaned forward, tuning back in to Harry's voice. Whatever this story was, he needed to know. He needed to know what had managed to draw a smile out of _Sherlock Holmes, _of all people.

" . . . And he was _so _in love with this girl, like, you wouldn't believe!" Harry giggled, putting her wine glass down on the table, and gesturing wildly with her hands. Already, John knew what story she was telling. "Every night he would walk her home, even though she lived miles away! Then he'd come back home with this _ridiculous _grin on his face, before running up to his room. What was that song you used to sing?"

"I . . . I don't know what you're talking about . . ." John mumbled, beginning to blush.

"Oh please, I could hear you every night from my room! You'd come home, go up to your room, and start singing at the top of your lungs . . . _tell me how much you caaaaaaaaaaare, oooooh yeah . . . . you will aaaaaaaaalways beeeeeee . . . . MY ENDLESS LOVE!" _Harry sang, before her voice dissolved into giggles again. Even Sherlock was beginning to laugh now, and John was getting increasingly more flustered and embarrassed. Harry leaned over to Sherlock, touching his shoulder. Weirdly, he didn't even recoil in the slightest. "It was sickening, let me tell you."

"I can imagine," he replied, grinning at John.

"Anyway, he was only . . . sixteen at the time? But he had it aaaaaall figured out! He told me one night, that he planned to propose to this girl! . . . Rebecca, I think her name was?" Harry was deep in thought, her brain clearly trying to grasp for words that it couldn't find. John nodded. "Rebecca, yes. So he told me that he planned to propose to Rebecca, though he didn't have a proper ring yet. Just this crappy little thing he got from Blackpool, or something. Anyway, he waited until after school, and pulled her out of a crowd.

He took her to one side, and said his big, romantic speech - it was the whole thing! I was watching from across the road, and she looked a little confused at first. I don't think she really knew what was happening. But then, he pulled the ring out of his pocket, and got down on one knee. People were starting to notice at this point, and they were attracting a rather large crowd. All of a sudden, she became quite angry. John didn't even have time to react, before he'd earned himself a slap across the face!"

"Harry, I don't think this is a very good id -" John began, but Harry just proceeded to shush him very loudly.

"You're ruining the story! . . . Anyway, so she slapped John across the face, and the crowd began to part. My poor, baby brother was in shock, but still holding the ring, when who should come through the crowd? _Rebecca!" _Harry cried, and Sherlock cocked his head, obviously confused. But Harry wasn't finished. She always did like telling a good story. "He'd only gone and proposed to her twin sister!"

And that was when it happened. Sherlock's eyes began to crease at the corners, and a loud laugh escaped his lips.

It was like nothing John had ever heard before. He and Sherlock had exchanged the occasional chuckle or snigger . . . but he'd never seen Sherlock laugh like _this. _He was clutching his sides, and the laugh continued to echo around the flat. John couldn't help but laugh himself. Just seeing Sherlock laugh made him . . . well, it made him _happy._

And happy was something he hadn't been in a long time.

* * *

**23:15 pm**

Coming back into the flat after finally having gotten rid of his sister, John collapsed into the nearest chair. Sherlock was splayed out across the sofa again, but had not yet returned to the comfort of his pyjamas. There were wine-glasses and a few bottles covering the coffee table, but it only added to the clutter that was already covering the flat.

Before tonight, a visit from Harry was the last thing he would have wanted. He didn't think he could handle her and Sherlock at the same time, and he wasn't even sure if they'd get on at all. Not only that, but having Harry around was _stressful. _He had to constantly be keeping tabs on how much she was drinking, and making sure that she was alright. He also had to try and keep her temper under control, which was easier said than done.

But despite his fears . . . . he'd actually enjoyed himself. Maybe a visit from Harry was what he'd needed all along? Having Harry tell all those stories . . . it was just like old times again.

When he'd come back from Afghanistan . . . he'd thought he'd never be the same again. He'd thought that the old version of himself was long gone, and had just been replaced by this new, empty, cold person. He'd thought that's what the rest of his life would be like, and he'd seen it, stretched out before him. He didn't like what he saw.

Sherlock had changed him.

In just the two weeks that he'd known him, John was already happier, healthier, and brighter than he'd ever been. He wasn't the same John Watson that had come back from the war. But, at the same time, he wasn't the same John Watson that had gone _into _it, either. He was the _new _John Watson, he was different. Though that didn't necessarily have to be a bad thing.

"I'm sorry . . . about that," John muttered, leaning back in his chair and sighing. He wasn't even sure if Sherlock was going to reply, or if he would even hear him. Sometimes, he would go so deep into his "mind palace", that he was just completely unaware of everything around him. Whether this was one of those times though, John wasn't sure.

"About what?"

"My . . . Harry." he replied, turning around to look at Sherlock. The consulting detective's eyes swivelled to John, and held his gaze for a moment. John stared back, unsure if he should say anything else. Quite often, he would find himself in a moment like this with Sherlock, where their eyes would lock. It would only be for just a _fraction _of a second, but to John . . . it felt like hours.

"No, it's . . . it's fine. She's . . . nice." Sherlock said absentmindedly, and John got the feeling that he actually meant it. The dark-haired man swung his legs around, and off the sofa. He perched on the edge, leaning his elbows on his knees, as he ruffled his hair. "Just a little . . . loud."

"You should've seen her when she was a teenager," John scoffed, and Sherlock gave him that small, almost-smile of his. John grinned. He liked it, when they had nights like this. Where they weren't fighting, or squabbling over some little, trivial thing. Nights where everything was just . . . peaceful, and calm. That's not to say that John didn't enjoy it when they were out on cases, because he loved it. He loved the thrill, and the danger. But sometimes . . . sometimes, he just needed a night like this to come along.

"It doesn't even bear _thinking _about." he joked, as he got up and walked over to the chair across from John. He sat with his usual grace and composure, crossing his legs as he did so. He rested one arm on the side of the chair, pressing two fingers to his temple. The light from the fire softened his sharp, angled features, and John leaned forward in his chair. "But you as a teenager . . . well, let's just say that it wasn't what I was expecting."

"Really? I would've thought you'd have had my entire childhood set out like a map in your head by now. Or is the great Sherlock Holmes not as great as he claims?"

"Oh please," Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John smirked. Even though he hated actually _fighting _with Sherlock, he just _loved _to push his buttons. He loved seeing that little gleam behind his eye, as he prepared to defend himself, and come up with some elaborate argument. He never bothered with Anderson, or Donavan, but John knew that was different. Sherlock didn't even deem them worthy of his time, mostly because he didn't want to waste his breath.

"I could tell you several events from your childhood, and exactly how you felt when they happened. I could tell you how they shaped the person you are today, and how they affected you. I could tell you the reason you always felt so alone, even when you were surrounded by friends. I could tell you why you felt so rejected when that girl dumped you in your first year of high school. Yes, I could tell you all of that. But what you must understand, is that there are some things that I can't _possibly _know. The type of person you were as a teenager being one of them. Teenagers are so complex. All those emotions, hormones, and thoughts rushing through them . . . teenagers are about as predictable as the English weather."

"Alright, alright. You can stop showing off now," John laughed, and a small smile tugged at Sherlock's lips again. He could see that John was impressed, though he was trying desperately not to show it. He didn't want the man's ego getting any bigger than it already was. "About that story though . . . the one about Rebecca . . . I'm sure Harry was just exaggerating . . . it can't really have been _that _bad . . . I mean, she was probably just trying to -"

"John," Sherlock cut him off, leaning forward and mirroring his position. "I think we both know that Harry wasn't exaggerating. Despite the number of drinks she had consumed by that point, I could still tell that she was telling the absolute, God's honest truth. But there's nothing to be ashamed of."

As Sherlock spoke, he rose from the chair, unbuttoning his jacket. Why he'd insisted on wearing a suit, John simply couldn't understand. They didn't even leave the flat! I mean, did the man own any _normal _clothes? He doubted it. Sherlock always had to look clean-cut, and sharp at all times. It was all just part of his image, and if John was being honest . . . he kind of liked it. Sherlock wouldn't be Sherlock without the tight-fitting shirts, and his long, sweeping coat.

He made his way towards his room, before turning to look over his shoulder. He stood at the door frame, his perfect, cupid's bow lips turning ever-so-slightly-upwards at the corners.

"Besides, I thought it was cute."


End file.
